The only exhibits that still fooled her were Marvo the Human Caterpillar, effectively a writhing torso in green shag-haired monster make-up that was either a dressed-up amputee or a disturbing rubber-beaked prosthetic, and the Headless Lady, which she decided most likely involved someone putting their arms through a model of a woman’s chest, although she still could not see how the trick really worked.
Longbright went in search of Harry Mills. She found the showman hiding away in his caravan, looking as if the weight of the world was on his broad shoulders. Introducing herself, she gave him her own barker’s spiel.
‘I was once a magician’s assistant in Blackpool,’ she explained, making sure that Mills got a good look at her infinite legs. ‘Just during the summer holidays. But I’m very well rehearsed in the art of prestiges.’ These were the gestures used by assistants to distract audience members from the magician’s activities. The statuesque Longbright had arrived at the Arcade of Abnormalities dressed in a low-cut spangled red leotard she had borrowed from a costume shop in Camden. As much as she disliked using her sex appeal on Mills, she needed to get backstage access in a way that would never be granted to punters. Mills was clearly distracted by her voluptuous figure, but was tense and abrupt.
‘If I could just have a meeting with your general manager, I feel sure I’d be able to persuade him to consider me,’ she persisted.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, love,’ said Mills. ‘Andrei is very busy at the moment. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a lot of work to be done before we close up …’ Rising, he began ushering her from his caravan.
Longbright was a police officer/showgirl who wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘It’s all right,’ she said cheerfully, ‘I can see myself out. Perhaps we’ll run across each other.’ Backing to the door, she pushed against the handle and slipped outside before he could stop her.
The audiences had gone home now, and the sideshows were in darkness. Moving between each of the tents in turn, she found that their entrance-flaps were held together with rope and were easily loosened. She checked the stages, but all were emptied and silent. Presumably the ‘exhibits’ had all returned to their caravans. Mingled scents of burned petrol, sawn wood, popcorn, electricity and stale sweat pervaded the canvas rooms, and beneath these lay an animal musk, the tang of something feral and corrupt. Two fat grey candles still burned behind tin shields in the Human Caterpillar’s tent. Checking inside, she pulled back the yellow satin curtains and found the stage bare. She had just turned to leave when a dark, stunted figure blocked her path at the entrance. Longbright could see two cones of crimson skin sculpted like horns, broad bow legs set wide apart, a barrel chest topped with an abnormally large head.
‘The show has ended. You should not be here.’ The dwarf remained motionless beneath the flickering lights, watching her. A more bizarre apparition was impossible to imagine, not because Andrei was of diminutive stature but because he had exaggerated his unusual features as much as possible. As he spoke he kept his deep-set eyes fixed tightly on hers. In his right fist he trailed his whip. ‘I thought you English know that it’s rude to stare,’ he said with soft menace.
‘You encourage it,’ she replied. ‘The make-up, the piercings, the tattoos – I’d say you set out to deliberately provoke.’
‘I am not as other people, so I have remade myself in order to increase the difference.’
‘You mean because you’re a dwarf.’
‘I mean because I am of superior intellect,’ Andrei replied.
‘I was hoping to see you,’ said Longbright. ‘I’m trying to get a job.’
‘You’re trying no such thing. You’re looking for Michael Portheim.’
There was no point in lying, she decided. ‘What makes you think that?’ Longbright assessed the situation, playing for time. Andrei was standing in the path of the only exit, and was armed.
‘You’re a police officer.’ Andrei sniffed the air. ‘It’s like a scent you leave behind in a room. I suppose you want to know why he came to see me.’
‘The information would be helpful, yes.’
‘Let’s just say it concerned the Seven Points.’
‘The Seven Points? What does that mean?’
‘You’re the law; you tell me. Portheim works for the secret service. You know most of their agents are psychologically disturbed. Their problems run very deep.’
‘I guess you’d know about that. I’ve read your own medical evaluation.’
Andrei exhaled wearily, flicking the whip much as a bored tiger would twitch its tail. ‘Doctors are hardly the best judges of character. Most of them are ill themselves. They lack a sense of vision.’
‘Is that what Portheim lacked?’
‘You know nothing about him other than what your bosses have told you. You’ve read a screenful of unreliable data posted in a document written by strangers half a world away.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘There is no other access to my medical records from here, only material which the state of my mother country allowed.’
‘Then tell me what you know about Michael Portheim.’
‘What do I get in return?’
‘We don’t make bargains,’ said Longbright firmly.
Andrei smiled tightly. ‘Then you get no information.’
‘We’re not supposed to tell you what we think when we’re investigating … persons of interest,’ said Long-bright carefully. ‘But these are unusual circumstances, and I’m speaking for myself, not my bosses. I think you killed him.’
Andrei’s smile broadened, revealing filed teeth. ‘Now why would I do that?’
‘Going from your past record you don’t need a reason. You’re mad.’
The smile faded. Andrei suddenly raised his arm and cracked the whip in her direction, making her start. ‘And you are trespassing on private property. Now get out of here before I set the dogs on you. They haven’t been fed, and will tear you apart.’
‘I’ll be back with a warrant to take this place down,’ Longbright warned. ‘If we find any evidence against you, you won’t avoid justice again.’ She left, knowing that he was watching her every step of the way.
It was nearly 10.30 p.m. when the detective sergeant found Bryant and May in the Nun and Broken Compass, finishing their pints. ‘I didn’t let him see I was frightened,’ she said, accepting a frothy pint of Camden Hells Lager from them. ‘He’s certainly arrogant. And there’s a stillness about him that’s incredibly threatening.’
‘It still doesn’t mean he knows anything about Portheim’s disappearance,’ said May.
‘He was taunting me, John. He said Portheim went to see him, not Harry Mills.’
‘That suggests he was ready to sell secrets. Federov may be a psychopath, but he’s well connected.’
‘He mentioned something called the Seven Points. What does that mean?’
‘Well,’ Bryant began, ‘the only Seven Points I can think of are the key meditative stages of mind training. It’s a system of behavioural modification and self-improvement conducted to awaken the senses, part of Mahayana Buddhism. We know Portheim studied a lot of Eastern belief systems because the contents of his flat list an awful lot of books on the subject, but why would he go to see Federov or Mills about them?’
‘Mills may seem a rough-and-ready type, but he has a shared history with Portheim,’ said May. ‘They studied together. Maybe they shared other interests.’
‘So he goes to see Mills about learning meditation and instead Andrei Federov murders him?’ scoffed Bryant. ‘Forgive me, but that doesn’t seem very likely. And where’s he buried, under the common?’
‘Federov is explosively unpredictable – anything could have happened,’ said Longbright.
‘There’s something else to take into account,’ said Bryant. ‘I dug a little further into his background. Unfortunately most of his files are archived in St Petersburg and are only made available to authorized visitors who can arrange their ap
pointments in person, but his academic records are online. It seems he was a brilliant student, specializing in codebreaking.’
‘The same as Portheim,’ said Longbright.
‘I imagine his university achievements singled him out for attention by the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. After he leaves college, there’s an eight-year gap in his file. The next time he appears is in court for murder – the case was heard in camera.’
‘So you think he was released with help from his former colleagues?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Bryant. ‘But you have to admit it’s very suggestive.’
‘So, what do we do now?’
‘Crisps,’ said Bryant. ‘Worcester Sauce flavour. Three bags. And a sausage. I’ll think more clearly then.’
‘You won’t be able to reason with him,’ said May nervously as they pushed open the gate to the park and set off in the direction of the sideshows once more. It was past midnight, and the rainclouds had parted to reveal a sickly moon. ‘Not that you’ve ever been able to reason. I mean, not properly. You’re utterly illogical so maybe the two of you have something in common. And what if you’re wrong? What if Michael Portheim left the arcade alive and just – I don’t know – fled the country? Or lay down and died somewhere in the woods where no one has found him yet?’
‘He didn’t leave the park,’ said Bryant. ‘The CIA and MI5 couldn’t find him.’
‘And that means we can? Without back-up? I don’t understand how.’
‘The secret service agencies collate empirical data, but we operate on instinct and emotions,’ said Bryant. ‘We can’t involve anyone else because we’re not even supposed to be involved now. And my ears are tingling, which means I know he’s killed again.’
‘I don’t trust your ears and we don’t have a warrant yet,’ May reminded him. ‘And what do you mean, we’re not meant to be involved? Did I miss a meeting?’
‘Something like that, yes. I had a bit of an argument with MI5 earlier. But Harry Mills is closing the arcade after tonight,’ said Bryant. ‘If he does that, Andrei Federov will disappear and no one will ever know what happened to one of the country’s top codebreakers. Slow down a bit, will you? You’re very tense tonight.’
‘Are you surprised?’ said May. ‘Trying to get the goods on a whip-wielding psychopath in the middle of the woods?’
‘We’re in a London park,’ said Bryant. ‘Honestly, I never took you for such a worryguts.’
‘Do you really think he killed Portheim?’
‘If he did, I’d pay good money to know what he did with the body.’
‘He has an IQ of almost a hundred and thirty, not that I suppose intelligence translates into common sense, but I can’t imagine he’d be so stupid as to bury it.’
‘No,’ said Bryant, thinking. ‘The tents are pitched right in the middle of the park, which is bordered on all four sides by main roads, and they’re all covered with traffic cameras. I suppose he could have fed Portheim to his dogs, but he’s more likely to have hidden him somewhere.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said Bryant, waggling his fingers around his forehead, ‘twisted mind, likes to play with people.’
‘I can’t get my mind around motiveless crimes at all,’ said May. ‘There are no reference points to work from.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it was motiveless,’ said Bryant. ‘Far from it.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘I’m going to have a damned good try.’
They had reached the arcade entrance. The evening’s customers had long been ushered from the area, but the main gate was unlocked. The burning flambeaux that lit the walkways around the edge of the tents were guttering in the rain, throwing odd angles of flamelight across the trodden, sodden grass.
And there he was, waiting for them, as dark and solid and mysterious as an ancient crow-filled oak.
‘Mr Bryant, Mr May, thank you for sending me your showgirl. I returned her intact.’
‘Ah, you met our Miss Longbright,’ said Bryant cheerfully. ‘Got a minute? Can we sit down somewhere? My legs are killing me.’
‘Everything is killing you,’ replied Andrei. ‘Your air, your food, your water, but most of all, your beliefs.’
‘Ah, you’re in a philosophical frame of mind tonight, I see.’ Bryant smiled indulgently as he eased his old bones on to the wooden bench. He was playing for high stakes now, and chose his words carefully. ‘We find ourselves drawn back here, Mr Federov, because as you admitted yourself, Mr Portheim’s story ends here with you.’
‘That’s not quite true. His story goes on.’
‘We know he didn’t leave your sight. We know you’re the last person who saw him alive.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not true either.’
‘Given your track record, it’s not likely that we’ll believe you, is it?’
‘I don’t know. I imagine your belief systems and mine are at variance. On my twelfth birthday I discovered a deep and powerful spirituality within me, and have acted according to its dictates ever since. It was like being touched on the cheek by a butterfly’s wing.’
‘Unfortunately you touched someone on the cheek with something a little sharper than a butterfly’s wing,’ said Bryant. ‘You’re a dab hand with a razor, by all accounts. Wasn’t that why you were expelled from school? And didn’t your father kill himself on your twelfth birthday, when he discovered what you were really like?’
For the first time, Andrei’s still composure momentarily flickered, like a video transmission briefly losing its signal.
‘This spiritual awakening of yours includes murder,’ Bryant pressed.
‘Not at all. I have never killed anyone.’ The dwarf’s features had recomposed themselves. He was in control once more. ‘I would not presume to hold the power over life and death. That responsibility is not in the charge of mortals.’
‘Interesting. Tell me, do you think you are mad?’ Bryant favoured surprising his suspects with the kind of blunt questions few officers ever asked.
‘Never. I know I’m not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because everything I do is for a reason.’
‘Of course. The Seven Points,’ said Bryant, realization dawning on him. Jumping to his feet, he made a dash – a slow one, as Mr Bryant is rather old – towards the yellow silk curtain that divided the stage from the public. Andrei spun himself around and raised his whip, cracking it so that the end wrapped itself around Bryant’s wrist, but a moment later May was on him. The detectives never carried weapons but, knowing that Andrei was dangerous, May had borrowed Longbright’s taser. He cracked it across Andrei’s barrel chest, convulsing him.
‘A bit more effective than Electra’s thirty-thousand-volt static stunt,’ he said as the dwarf fell to the floor. Bryant flicked back the curtain with his walking stick.
There, writhing and flopping on the crimson-painted dais in the centre of the stage, was the Caterpillar Boy. Its limbless emerald torso had an absurd rubber beak and bulbous articulated eyes. It emitted a mewling sound like a cat in pain.
‘My God.’
Bryant began tearing at the plastic tapes holding the exhibit’s mask tightly in place, but they proved hard to remove with bitten nails. The Caterpillar Boy’s body had been painted in thick layers of green paint. His arms and legs had been severed and neatly sutured at their bases. He was held in place on the dais by a single broad plastic strap.
‘Federov was a medical student for two years in St Petersburg,’ said Bryant, looking for something with which to cut Portheim free. ‘If that little fellow moves again, stick a few more volts up him.’
May looked at the Caterpillar Boy, aghast. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’ he asked.
‘Because of the Seven Points. Give me a hand here.’ Bryant found his Swiss Army knife and used the blade to sever the single strap. Then they set about removing the rest of his facial tapes. ‘I knew there had
to be a reason why Andrei Federov was released by the Russian Security Service. They wouldn’t set a psychopath free and then allow him to leave the country without purpose. He was dangerous but knew exactly what he was doing, and he needed cover to operate as an agent. Portheim has a headful of counter-terrorist information that Federov needed to unearth and deliver, so he used a technique from the old country to get it. The immobilization of the prisoner by the removal of his limbs. He had to be kept alive until he’d been drained of information. He had everything taken away from him except the Seven Points.’ Bryant indicated his ears, eyes, mouth and nostrils. ‘Only one of the exhibits was reduced to relying on them.’
‘My God, the poor devil,’ exclaimed May.
‘I imagine Mills is the only other person who knows the truth about what’s been going on here since the night he arrived. I’m willing to bet that Federov perfected his interrogatory technique in Russia. The difference was that there his victims died before anyone could get to them. Technically you could argue that he didn’t kill anyone – his countrymen let them die from their surgery.’
‘All right, the FSB want information, but I can’t imagine that they’d have asked Federov to put his victim on display in a sideshow, for God’s sake,’ said May.
‘Well, that was a bit of an own goal on their behalf, I’m afraid.’ Bryant looked back at the sutured man with sadness. ‘They branded him a psychopath when it suited them, but he became one.’
The last of the plastic strips came away from Portheim’s desiccated mouth, and he was able to croak a cry for help.
‘He needs water,’ said May. ‘He’s suffering from dehydration.’ He handcuffed the dwarf to a tent pole with Portheim’s strap, then called for an ambulance.
‘They can do miracles with prosthetic limbs these days,’ said Bryant, not very reassuringly. ‘Of course, that will deprive the Caterpillar Boy of his career in show business.’
‘Let’s not use the term “Caterpillar Boy” in Mr Portheim’s presence any more, Arthur,’ May whispered.
Bryant & May - London's Glory: (Short Stories) (Bryant & May Collection) Page 12
